


Secret Handshakes Required

by mightyscrub



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Fluff, M/M, missions and feelings tm, sneaking suit erections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 13:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightyscrub/pseuds/mightyscrub
Summary: I had writer's block so I just wanted to relax with a quiet fluffy Philanthropy oneshot...  Here it is!





	Secret Handshakes Required

**Author's Note:**

> It's almost been a year I've been in this fandom ya'll... Thanks for inspiring me and being my friends ;v;

“Otacon” already feels like a truer name than Hal.

There’s something about the constant motion of Philanthropy, the constant purpose even in the empty stomachs and dry showers on the road, that makes Otacon feel more alive than he ever has. Were there people in the world who felt this way all the time? The weight of their bones, the satisfied fatigue of watching the sunrise from a shitty apartment window after an all-nighter. Snake across the table from him, stinking of the cigarettes he snuck in before Otacon could nag him.

Otacon has never felt so _real_.

Before every mission, they go for a walk together. In Michigan they take a particularly long trek through a neighborhood of mostly empty off-season condos to the beach along Lake Huron. The lake is so massive that waves lap at the gray sand, like an ocean in its own right. It’s only fall but it’s already cold as hell, knifing straight through their Goodwill jackets. Otacon can still smell the cigarette smoke that clings to Snake’s clothes, like some grounding home smell under the sharp scentless cold and the salt. They’re walking close together, that’s the thing. Their shoulders sometimes bump.

Otacon has finally outgrown his tendency to nervously ramble to fill up the silences between them, understanding at last that the silences are _comfortable_.

Snake’s hair is windswept, a light beard growing in along his sharp jaw, meeting curls of reckless brown just under his ears. It’s handsome, Otacon thinks.

Otacon isn’t quite as effortlessly roguish, in fact he’s a bit greasy this morning. It’s early so he hasn’t showered yet.

There’s a large smooth rock jutting out of the sand ahead, and completely without hesitation Snake veers off course to climb it, hands still in his jacket pockets, and Otacon follows as always. The surface is a bit slippery and grainy under their shoes. Otacon stumbles, and Snake’s hand shoots out of his pocket like easy lightning, grabbing firmly at Otacon’s elbow and hoisting him up, so that Otacon’s shoulder makes a pop noise and smarts but he doesn’t fall.

It’s kind of picturesque, standing here on their little boulder outcropping, staring out at the not-quite sea.

To Otacon, Snake seems especially heroic in these quiet moments.

“Reminds me of Shadow Moses,” Snake says, still watching the water.

A chilly ocean. “Yeah, I can see that,” says Otacon. “Less snow, though.”

“Thank god.”

Strange to think now that Otacon really believed he’d found a reason to live back at Shadow Moses, thought he was working toward a greater good. He had colleagues who liked him, even if their smiles at his jokes were sometimes stretched-thin, humoring him sort of smiles. That seemed like all life could possibly be back then. Good work, eating, sleeping, rinse and repeat.

But he’d never felt it in his body like he does now. It was like going through a dream, emotions dulled, even pain dulled, with no concept at all of what waking up would be like.

He takes in a deep breath of saltwater air through his nose because suddenly he needs to blink against a twinge behind his eyes.

“Something wrong?” Snake asks, because of course he notices.

“No,” Otacon says, his voice a little strained. “No. I think everything’s _right_ , actually. You know?”

Somehow Snake does know. He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkle and he turns to look at Otacon searchingly. Or perhaps just… appreciatively.

Otacon has known for a long time that something in his friendship with Snake, their partnership, has always been immeasurably precious. But right in this moment it hits his chest and explodes and keeps growing and growing like his ribcage can’t possibly contain it.

_Oh god. I really love this man._

It’s not a realization, it’s not new, but the weight of it feels like it’ll choke him.

He clears his throat. “Ready to head back to base, then?”

It sounds more like _Let’s go home_.

Snake does smile then, a strange little crooked smirk, as if enjoying a private joke at Otacon’s expense.

“We’ve got a job to do,” Snake agrees. And on the way down from their rock, he casually holds a callused hand at the back of Otacon’s neck, between his shoulders, steadying and warm.

x

They have a rule that Snake is allowed one guilt-free cigarette during mission prep.

He sucks at it briskly in the one bedroom of their apartment-of-the-day, while Otacon snaps him into his new sneaking suit. Let it be known, skintight latex is not a material that abides by convenience.

As Otacon wrestles with the clasps at the small of Snake’s back, muttering swears to himself, Snake scratches at his beard with a gloved hand.

“Stop moving around,” Otacon gripes.

Snake glances at him over his shoulder, just so Otacon can get a good glimpse of his grin, cigarette clamped between his teeth.

The suit requires nudity of course, and living together for over a year has more or less adapted them to the embarrassing details of each other’s bodies, but lately Otacon has grown increasingly aware of the curve of Snake’s ass just under where his fingers scramble at the suit’s corset. Breathing down Snake’s neck, with the tight hug of the suit against Snake’s muscular shoulders, is harder and harder to ignore these days.

With one last frustrated huff, Otacon finishes the last buckle and, pushing up his glasses sloppily, steps around to Snake’s front.

Snake removes his cigarette between thumb and forefinger so he isn’t smoking in Otacon’s face. Otacon hefts around the pockets at his chest, so the suit is laying correctly.

At this point, Otacon can never stop himself from darting a glance between Snake’s legs.

Snake is always a little hard by now, pressing lazily against the latex. It’s not an urgent lustful thing so much as an annoying fact of biology. Of course having somebody’s hands running all over him, pulling straps tight between his thighs, is going to spring some wood.

All that is normal, but Otacon doesn’t have to look every time.

He pulls up the collar at Snake’s throat, pinched between his fingers, and frowns determinedly against the fact that Snake doubtlessly knows this and has never called him out on it.

“Testing,” Otacon says through the codec, mouth unmoving.

“Hear you loud and clear,” Snake replies.

Otacon steps back finally, ignoring the heat burning in his face, and Snake immediately sticks the cigarette back in his mouth.

“You’re meeting our contact thirty-eight miles from the air force base,” Otacon rehashes. “You’ll get a more thorough debrief there from your team, but obviously I have all the information you’ll need about the actual infiltration.”

“Obviously,” says Snake.

They don’t often work with teams. As Philanthropy grows, however, they’ve come into contact with more and more resources, fringe groups just as interested in annihilating Metal Gears as they are. Now that Philanthropy has leaked Metal Gear information to the general public, these groups range from ex-military to civilian punks. Of course, he and Snake prefer to keep to themselves, and they hold all of these groups at arm’s length, only using them when a tactical advantage is offered.

Today’s team is one of the more organized and experienced groups, and their sheer numbers should make this an easy job. But Philanthropy doesn’t trust easily. They’ll have plenty of failsafes in check.

The unspoken truth is that Snake is always ready to run, to betray, to slip out of alliances just as easily as they were started. The exceptions to this rule can be counted on one hand.

Nastasha. Mei Ling. Campbell.

Otacon.

Otacon turns to the bed to grab the civilian clothes Snake will wear over his suit for the in-between time, tossing the bundle at Snake’s chest. “Your job is just to get pictures of Metal Gear, alright?” he says. “Your team are doing the dismantling this time. We’re just on public relations. We get the real information out to the people, and our little squad of newbie terrorists get the backing they need in today’s aftermath.”

“I’ll decide whether they’re up to the task,” Snake says blandly.

“Just don’t get too lone wolf hero about it.”

Snake finishes off his cigarette to the wet orange nub, and Otacon takes it from him with a wrinkled nose. “Get dressed,” he says before Snake can protest, and goes to toss the butt in the bathroom trashcan.

When Snake is all done up, he’s in the same jacket and sweatpants he’d worn during their walk on the beach. The only hint of the stealth technology underneath is the latex collar peeking out at Snake’s wide neck.

They never know what to say to each other at this moment, when they part.

So instead, they’ve devised a handshake. It’s a series of slaps and bumps and a firm grip at the end. They made it up in the most mundane of settings, after a movie marathon, and are always revising it for aesthetics and practicality.

Here in the doorway, it’s how they say good luck.

Afterwards, Snake thumbs a hanging corner of his bandana deeper into his pocket.

“Stay safe, Otacon.”

“I know, I know. You too.”

x

Otacon pulls up a schematic of the hangar where the prototype of a hovering Metal Gear is currently dormant, waiting for them. But that’s about all Otacon can do for now, so he spends the rest of the day wasting time, siphoning off energy by flitting inattentively through different anime and space programs on the internet, nervously plowing through a whole bag of potato chips.

Snake talks to him throughout the day, mostly when he’s also bored in his travels.

“It’s started raining,” Snake’s voice pops in his ear at one point.

“Has it?”

“You’ve got windows don’t you?”

“I’m in the bathroom, I’m shaving.”

“No you’re not.”

Truth be told Otacon is not, he’s just staring at his tired reflection in the mirror and twirling their shared razor in his fingers.

“I ought to,” Otacon says, grimacing at the uneven patches of stubble across his chin.

“Trying for a beard?” Snake asks, a rough-warm sort of teasing in his voice. They both well know that Otacon can’t grow anything beyond a shadow.

“Ha ha,” Otacon says dryly. “Yours isn’t exactly at mountain man level either, you know.”

Snake grunts, and Otacon reigns victorious.

Otacon finds himself stripping out of his shirt, remembering all at once that he still hasn’t showered. Snake rattles off a customary update on his position, then the blip of a conversation ends, and Otacon wiggles out of his jeans and underwear.

The ceiling above their shower is at a slant, so Otacon has to duck to fit, but the water is warm and that’s way better than their usual.

He lets the tiny bathroom steam up, lets the water heat his skin pink, rubs a hand over the coarseness of the stubble he hasn’t managed to shave. A fatiguing exhilaration thrums somewhere in his center, the usual pre-mission worry but also the hope that precedes another celebration, another Metal Gear successfully destroyed.

He believes in Snake. It seems unfathomable that Snake would fail.

But even so, he watches the water draining between his knobby toes and feels himself praying to no god in particular that Snake makes it back alright.

He jumps a little when the codec crackles in his ear again.

“I’m soaked,” Snake grumbles.

Otacon swallows thickly, something weirdly intimate about talking to Snake in current circumstances. He fingers his own clavicle, scratching awkwardly, the water running down his back and over his shoulders and in rivulets down his legs. He’s warm, heart pounding luxuriously in the heat and comfort.

“Otacon?”

“I mean… nobody owns an umbrella these days, right?”

“Are you ok?”

“Huh? Yeah!”

“You sound funny.”

Maybe the codec can sense the blood pounding in his ears. Otacon glances down his own rather uninspiring body, one knee bending. He’s so skinny… you can see his ribs. The water darkens the smatterings of hair awkwardly cropping up around his nipples and as a line down across his belly button into altogether too much pubic hair, too much leg hair, hair on the knuckles of his feet.

He is abruptly embarrassed, half because he is so very unappealing compared to Snake and half because his cock is just a tiny bit too interested in his partner’s voice under the pounding of the water.

“Did you know Raymond Burr wasn’t originally in Godzilla?” he squawks.

“Oh?”

“It was part of the Americanization. It completely changed the feel of the movie if you ask me.” And then Otacon is prattling off facts about Gojira and Perry Mason as he hastily shampoos his hair.

There’s something funny then about hearing Snake’s take on it, along with fleeting descriptions of the people-watching, as Otacon soaps up the uglier parts of his anatomy--armpits, penis, ass. Thankfully, it becomes more stupid than sexual.

Thankfully.

But his heartrate has racketed up so much that he has to turn cooler water on to fend off the dizziness mounting in his head.

Snake’s voice is craggy and quiet and so achingly familiar in these casual moments when he simply wants someone to talk to.

x

The chatting subsides that evening when Snake makes it to the meetup point. Then it’s just brief updates as the mission’s pieces fall into place.

Otacon sits at his computer, staring down the bluish lines of the schematic.

Waiting – that’s Otacon’s job.

Wait while Snake tilts the world sideways once again.

But this time, something goes wrong.

Otacon always knows when something goes wrong, like a sixth sense at the back of his neck, and this time the evidence is how it’s taking too long, hours overtime.

Snake doesn’t check in, and Otacon knows better than to bother him during what must be the heat of his infiltration. Instead, Otacon heaves out of his chair with a clenched jaw, and walks around the apartment, room to room.

Into the kitchenette, circle the table. Skipping dinner.

Out into the living area, where he and Snake don’t have a sofa but tend to drag the kitchen chairs in front of the tv. Bathroom. Closet.

Bedroom, where they share a bed. It stopped being awkward eight months ago.

It’s one in the morning, five hours since Snake’s last check-in, when the codec finally bursts to life, and Otacon scrambles immediately to his computer, almost trips over the chair.

“Otacon.”

“Talk to me.” Otacon’s still standing, the blue light of his computer screen the only thing illuminating the living room. He was so distracted he forgot to turn on the lights everywhere. He only flipped switches in smatterings where it had occurred to him—light on in the bedroom and the kitchen.

“These rookies are useless.”

“What’s your position?”

“I’m almost out, but I’ll need a pickup.”

Otacon swallows the anxiety squirming around his adam’s apple. “We’re giving them the slip then?”

“And the mission. I got the pictures, but that Metal Gear is right as rain still. Our rookies already ran off.”

“Useless,” Otacon repeats.

“I don’t trust their getaway car,” Snake says. What he doesn’t have to say is _I trust you_.

“I’m on it.” They don’t have a car currently, they sold it the last town over, but Otacon will find a way to get to Snake because it needs to be done. “Just keep moving.”

“Thanks for the miracle, Otacon.”

Then Otacon unwires his laptop from all its USB nonsense and hooks it under his arm, forgetting his jacket or to turn off lights before hurrying outside.

Some of the neighbors have their cars parked in the street. It’s still raining, light but cold. Otacon says a quick prayer in his head, then chooses the closest car at random, hoping beyond hope that he can get to Snake and back before it’s missed.

That’s purely a prayer to keep the police off his tail, of course. Insurance at least can be involved later, to fix the window Otacon breaks.

The car’s alarm blares as Otacon unlocks the door and slides inside, throwing his computer into the back seat. He works quickly, willing his shaking hands to stop their damn fumbling.

Knock open such-and-such compartment, finger through the wiry guts that fall out. It’s all terribly simple from a mechanical engineer’s perspective, but his heart is ready to hammer out of his forehead by the time he finally cuts the alarm.

He gets the engine running. It all happened in only a moment, and he places nervous faith in the fact that nobody’s getting out of their beds at 1am for some random car alarm.

It took Snake six hours to get to the meetup point earlier, but he was on foot half the time and looping every whichway to keep his tail clean. A direct route in a car should hopefully get them back before sunrise.

The drive is painfully silent, just the trickling of dark rain trailing down the windshield, catching the streetlights in refractive little gems and making it harder for Otacon to see. He has always had trouble night driving. The opening of his broken window flecks him with water and cold night.

At his other side, the passenger seat feels like it’s gonna burn a hole though him, that pressing Lack Of Snake. It’s nothing like their long road trips across this country, with the smell of coffee and ripe laundry but also music and sometimes Snake’s sharp laugh, his bared teeth, his eyes momentarily bright.

_I really love this man._

Otacon will never get used to holding such an enormous life in the palm of his hand. Like an egg. Don’t drop it, don’t be late, don’t blow your cover, don’t leave Snake for dead.

They are always a thin shell from disaster.

Otacon goes as fast as he can inconspicuously, shooting through empty streets, under stoplights that have gone to sleep for the night, simply flashing red.

Snake updates him on his position in brief spurts of the codec. Then finally, Otacon pulls into an alley between two warehouses at the edge of town, and he waits.

The night is so damn _quiet_. Without the wipers or the headlights on now, the rain just makes a huge swath of wobbly water across his vision, like everything in the world is melting. He can’t look at it, stares out his broken window instead, but the raindrops are even on his glasses, inescapable.

Then the passenger door yanks open and Snake grunts “Drive” before he’s even sitting down properly.

Off they go.

“Are you hurt at all?” Otacon demands immediately.

“No.” Snake is turned around, gun trained on the darkness outside the rear window.

They drive in tense silence, until finally Snake relaxes and turns forward, clicking on his safety. No one is following them.

It’s still silent for a long time, until abruptly Snake’s hand clamps on Otacon’s shoulder, not urgently but tightly.

“Otacon,” he says, surprisingly gently.

Otacon realizes he’s shaking and utterly straightbacked, his knuckles stinging with how hard he’s holding the steering wheel in both hands. Under Snake’s firm grip he gingerly unwinds, lets his hands relax achingly. _Breathe_.

“Disappointing,” Otacon croaks. “The rookies, I mean.”

Snake gives his shoulder one more hard pat, then pulls his hand back. “The Metal Gear is still there. We’ll have to sit on the photos until things cool down and we can go back,” he says. “Just you and me.”

Otacon laughs. “I’m not much of a partner if I’m just in your ear.”

But Snake’s grunt is dismissive of that idea. “You’re the only team that matters.”

He says it strangely, like maybe he isn’t only talking about tonight.

Otacon focuses on breathing and driving through the brightly speckling raindrops.

x

They park their neighbor’s car right where they left it at about 4:30, clean it up until the broken window only looks like a mysterious vandalism. Not altogether uncommon in these parts.

Snake’s civilian outer layer is gone, just in his rain-wet sneaking suit as they both hurriedly get back inside, sheltered by the last bits of night pushing against that hint of pink on the horizon.

Otacon’s teeth are chattering by the time they get inside. The kitchen and bedroom lights are still on, and Snake is the one who turns on the living room. Otacon gingerly places his laptop back in its home, with all of its priceless information. It always has to be glued to his side or destroyed, no in between.

When he turns back, Snake is closer than expected and watching him.

Snake is obviously cold too, wet hair plastered to his skull. At their proximity, Otacon can even see his nipples protruding against the skintight latex. But he’s looking at Otacon with a sort of softness.

“Don’t baby me,” Otacon grumbles, but he shivers all the way through it.

Snake pats his shoulder again, then uses the motion to pull Otacon into a cold, wet hug. Snake’s arms are hard, his touch always a little rough, but Otacon wraps around him reflexively, clinging, pressing his face against Snake’s slick shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to make him shiver less, but the solidity of Snake’s body against his own is enough. Realness, aliveness, is more often hard rather than soft, uncomfortable but somehow honest in its rough edges.

Otacon’s clinging far too much. Why are his fingers curling against Snake’s back, why is he pressed so close his glasses are digging into his nose and Snake’s chest?

Oh right. It occurs to him all at once. He thought he might lose Snake.

That’s why Snake is ruffling a hand through the hair at the back of Otacon’s head, calming him down.

Stupid. It wasn’t Otacon that could have died.

But he knows just as well that if he lost Snake now, he would lose the great magic that has overtaken his life.

And he would lose his best friend.

Otacon pulls back far enough to mumble “Sorry”, his glasses askew. Snake’s hand in his hair pulls forward to cup his stubbled cheek, a rough thumb brushing under his eye but there aren’t any tears there to wipe away.

Otacon whips up some courage and looks up, meeting Snake’s gaze, which is unreadable and deep, focused with a frown between his eyebrows.

Whatever Otacon might have said gets stuck in his throat then as he realizes his leg is pressed up against Snake’s half-erection.

Biology again. The anticipation of Otacon helping him out of his sneaking suit now, all those clasps and intimate touches. But it brings a flush to Otacon’s face, and Snake, seemingly realizing as well, shows a quick flash of sheepish teeth.

They laugh abortively.

“Let me… take care of that suit,” Otacon says, heart hammering.

“You should get out of your wet clothes too,” Snake points out.

But Otacon’s face is already red enough thank you, so he just shrugs, starting to kneel in front of Snake.

Before he can get to the straps between Snake’s thighs, however, he pauses at Snake’s torso. He stares at the shape of Snake’s taut stomach to ignore the cock he knows is just lower.

Some weird emotion tightens at the back of his throat, at the same moment as he can feel arousal of his own twisting nauseatingly in his gut.

All at once he bounces up again, face to face with Snake but utterly unable to say what he wants to. His mouth is working like a landed fish, and there’s no air in his lungs. But something in the earnestness of his face must have said everything, or maybe it’s all the doing of the barely contained intensity hiding in Snake’s own expression, but either way Snake takes his arms and pulls him forward and kisses him desperately.

Otacon’s breath hiccups in his throat as their lips smash together, and he presses as close as he can, clinging again, but Snake is wrapped around him just as firmly, his fingers at Hal’s wet sleeves just as fumbling.

What on earth could break Snake’s control like this? Maybe it’s something like this shivering pounding in Hal’s heart, chest bursting with that same feeling of utter rightness, until he thinks he might even cry and ruin everything.

Their skin is cold but their breath is hot, ghosting over lips and cheeks as the kisses lose their scrambling edge, grow softer and lingering. Otacon’s never kissed someone like this before. Like he wants to hold them in his palm, cherish them.

They pull back only enough to breathe for awhile, foreheads brushing, Snake tracing his nose against Otacon’s and placing a kiss randomly at the very corner of Otacon’s mouth.

“Ok?” Snake asks, voice low.

“Y-yeah.”

“You’re sure? This is—“

“Yeah! Yeah, just yeah.”

They’re laughing again, stupidly, but there’s heat somewhere inside Otacon now, enough that he can ignore how damn cold they still are, as he kisses down Snake’s jaw.

Snake’s hips cant slowly against Otacon’s leg, erection hot at his thigh, and Otacon groans appreciatively.

“ _Yeah_.”

“Yeah what?”

“Christ, Snake.” Otacon’s voice hitches as he presses himself against Snake in turn, his own cock tingling with almost-enough stimulation at the zipper of his jeans. “I don’t even know, I’ve wanted this for a _really_ long time…”

A low rumble of a chuckle from Snake, who says, “Me too.”

Why had they waited so damn long then?

Otacon would almost be mad, except Snake is rolling his hips against him at a slow rhythm now, all of Snake’s slick muscular chest pressed against him, and Otacon can’t seem to breathe right. He can’t seem to speak right either, except to mumble “Snake” and squeeze his eyes shut and let his head hang at Snake’s shoulder.

_Oh god, oh god._

Snake grunts, murmurs something inaudible against Otacon’s temple.

Otacon’s jeans rapidly become too constricting, zipper biting into his underwear. He can feel Snake at full hardness now and it’s not enough, frustratingly not enough. Without thinking, he shuffles a hand between them and unzips his fly as one of Snake’s arms hooks firmly at the small of his back. They’re kissing again, hot and slow and exploratory, as Otacon shimmies his pants and underwear just far enough down his hips to brush his cock against Snake’s, bare skin against slick wet latex.

Their pace grows choppy and eager again as they press their cheeks close and rut against each other, cocks slipping in rain and precum, thoughtless and needing. Otacon clings from Snake’s shoulders, his legs shaking and getting weaker and weaker the more orgasm mounts in his stomach, until Snake has to half hold him up in that strong arm at his back.

Snake comes first, fisting the back of Otacon’s shirt roughly and gasping out through clenched teeth, rutting against him, the outline of his cock straining against the sneaking suit, against Otacon’s hot skin. Everything slows down, but Otacon is so close that he’s choking with scrambling wet fingers at Snake’s shoulders.

Then Snake’s gloved palm is curling around Otacon’s cock and pulling him off hard and fast, and Otacon’s thighs quiver in his pants and he can only muster a pitiful cry of a noise as he cums across Snake’s wrist and the slick tight sheen of his suit.

He would probably have plum fallen over right then, except Snake guides him slowly to the floor, grinning and kissing him the whole way down.

x

They sit on the living room floor somewhat ridiculously for awhile, until they’re both shivering, still wet and cold despite orgasms, and they laugh about it.

Snake gives him that same appreciative look, not quite smiling but just watching him, and now it feels like when he does this he’s trying to memorize Otacon’s features. Like Otacon’s horse-ish face is worth that level of attention.

Otacon has, shall we say, put himself back in his underwear, but his fly is still undone and his knees instinctively tilt inwards, as if to cover himself. But Snake’s expression doesn’t change.

It’s surely twee to blurt out confessions after cumming, especially when their asses are getting sore on the cold floor, so they joke instead, quietly, before falling into one of their comfortable silences again. That’s when they know the anxiety has finally left and they’re really ok.

“Hal…” Snake says slowly, and that’s the first time in Otacon’s life that name has sent a bolt of clarity through him.

_That’s me, and I’m here and real._

Otacon’s smile then isn’t nearly as wobbling and self-deprecating as he might have expected. Instead it’s… sure. It’s absolutely sure. Of what? Who knows. Except that he feels incredibly happy.

“We should try this again sometime, Dave.”

Snake’s eyes pinch slightly at his own name, and he smiles back warmly.

It occurs to Otacon not only that he can tell Snake he loves him later, but also that he’s sure he _will_. Just as sure as this nameless ownership in his chest, he knows he will tell Snake everything someday. And he will thank him from the bottom of his heart.

But not right now. Right now they need to change out of their damn wet clothes.

x

They regroup. It takes about a month before they’ve aligned everything for Snake to go back into the field again and finish what he started.

This time at the door, instead of their handshake, Snake kisses him quickly, a familiar peck like you might give your spouse before going to work.

And this time, the work gets done.


End file.
